Mutilate
by ThereAreNoPerks
Summary: "Bullies aren't born evil. I know that. But just because they're not born evil doesn't mean they aren't. Evil doesn't deserve a second chance, but Principal Powers has already given him one. And now I'm stuck having to help change his messed up ways to good. All because of a similarity you wouldn't think possible, not for a boy like him. Egotistical, or so I thought." LASHxOC
1. Scars

The moment I wake up, my stomach churns with anxiety and excitement at once. I would be more stirred up about the situation if I weren't so tired, and if my eyelids weren't so heavy. My alarm clock's annoying, repetitive noise, beeping and stopping and beeping again, really helps, though.

It takes a moment to open my eyes, and a few more moments to lift myself up, but when I do, fatigue flushes over me like a hot shower. I slam my hand on the head of my alarm clock, tempted to burn it but I wont. I have more self control than to use my powers like that. I mean, I was raised by the best. More or less.

My parents are pretty special. I am, too. I don't mean to brag, but all three of us are kind of amazing. Amazing as in people you've never seen before. Well, people is kind of an understatement. Actually, it's a huge understatement.

You see, kind of like the supernova Will Stronghold, son of two of the most amazing superheroes, Jetstream and the Commander, I'm one of those freaks born of two superhero parents instead of one. And not just any parents - crazy famous parents. Well, famous in the superhero world, that is. My mom is kind of like the invisible girl. She can turn invisible, obviously, - hence the nickname - but she can do more than that. Whoever she touches becomes invisible with her, too, and when she's invisible, people can't touch her. If they walked in her, literally, while she was invisible, they'd walk right past her like she was air. It's pretty cool.

My dad, though, has the really great power. He can cast flames throughout his entire body, and burn nearly everything in sight. It's pretty remarkable, if you ask me. Watching it is like watching a family bonfire, just without the family and more violence. And it's a lot cooler.

I firstly walk to my dresser, where all of my clothes for the first day of school have been neatly laid on my bed. Mom reckoned that I wear a skirt on the first day, but skirts aren't necessarily my forte. Instead I have grayish-blue tinted shorts, a black wide strapped tank top with bold letters above a grotesque image, ASKING ALEXANDRIA, and white stockings underneath the shorts. Yeahh… showing my legs aren't necessarily my thing, either.

Too many bruises and cuts. For reasons unknown to the public.

As I get dressed, I pay caution to what scraps against my leg to make sure I don't trigger any pain, and then let the rest come easy. A heavy sigh leaves my lips.

First day of freshman high. Whoohoo.

Honestly, I'm supposed to be a sophomore, but thanks to my stupidity, my ego, and my life, I was held back a grade, way back when. I kind of hate that, but what can I do? It's not like I'm honestly expected to try and skip a grade to get to my rightful place. I know I wont do it, even if I wanted to. Not because I'm a bad student, but I'm too apathetic to actually care about much of anything, academic wise. Or anything at all, really.

I trudge my way downstairs, where mom and dad are already dressed in their morning best, dresses and suits, and watch as they eat breakfast together. Mom tells me that she and dad were in love once upon a time ago, but now it's too difficult to see that ever being a possibility. I think they scream at each other more than they work. They work a lot.

I sit down beside my powerless, normal sister, Giselle. Another sigh. We look similar in too many ways when we're both makeup-less, but we're never makeup-less. She cakes the stuff on like her face is a coloring book, but I didn't learn what eyeliner or mascara was until just this year. Giselle ties her strawberry blonde hair into a messy bun and continues to eat her cereal in silence. I make a face. We could be twins if her hair wasn't so blonde, and my hair wasn't so red. It's obviously a dyed red; too vibrant to be real. I still like it better than the blonde.

The moment mom and dad sit down to kiss our heads goodbye, dad gives me an uneasy look. His dark, red/brown eyes burn with fear.

"Reagan," He calls, ruffling my fiery red hair but not enough to mess it up too badly. I stare back up at him. From young adult to now, he hasn't changed that much in physical appearance, he just looks a little worn and torn. He still has the same dark hair and tan skin, like my older brother Clayton, and the same crease between his thick brows. Clayton is the only one who looks like dad in any way. Giselle and I look like mom with our light skin, green eyes and thin faces. I'm the only one with any sort of powers. My frown begins to feel heavier.

"Yeah, dad?"

"Do you remember what happened to Sky High last year, with those villains?" He says with his voice low, as if it is a crime if someone hears. I blink.

"Yeah?"

"Those three kids who were apprentices to Royal Pain were allowed back at the school. I want you to stay away from them, they're not trust worthy. Alright?" I don't answer, and dad kisses the top of my head.

"Have a good day at school, sweetie." I almost don't register his words, though. My mind is too caught up on the fiasco from last year, with Gwen Grayson, Royal Pain, and the evil three. It was the talk of the superhero world last year. Now, I doubt anyone even remembers their names. I sure don't. If anything, I'm not sure if I even knew their names to begin with. I make a face, and sling my book sack over my shoulder. I leave without saying a word.

It's barely daybreak outside, but I can see where I step when I walk, so it isn't that bad. I walk to the bus stop in silence. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll be the only person at this bus stop. Making new friends isn't really my strong point. Or making friends.

I don't really have friends.  
I don't really want friends.

I don't say that because I want to be like some mysterious bad-girl anime character, but because I literally don't want friends. They're a waste of time. It's not like I'll be buddy-buddy with anyone for long.

I mean, come on. Grow up.

Regrettably, I am not alone for long before steps reckon that someone is coming. I try not to turn my head at first, but then I can't help it and I leisurely inch my head over my shoulder. It's a boy with brown, slick hair that shines and a red, white, and blue tee-shirt. He walks with another girl with a hair made of golden-red lockets, that gracefully make curvy ringlets down her back. I blink, and she blinks, back.

"You're new?" She asks with a soft voice. I clear my throat.

"Uh, yeah." I reply back, unsure of what to say without sounding too hesitant. Even when I'm trying too hard not to sound hesitant, I still sound… hesitant. The other boy, the one with the red, white and blue shirt, smiles.

"Hi. This is Layla Williams, my girlfriend. I'm Will Stronghold." I freeze when he says Stronghold.

Maybe I should have seen it by the colors on his shirt - they match the Commander and Jetstream's uniform attire - or maybe I should have seen the resemblances. He looks stunningly like his father, or so I hear. But the fact of the matter is that I didn't realize.

My body tenses. Will smirks.

"Are you alright?" He asks, and it brings me back to reality. I try to relax, but my attempts are poor. "You look like you saw a ghost or something." I crack a smile.

"Not a ghost. Just Will Stronghold and Layla Williams, freshman saviors of Sky High. Usual." I say with a smirk, finally feeling a little further back from the edge. Still grazing at it, but not so harshly.

"And what's your name?"  
"I'm Reagan Karly." They both smile back, but neither of them answer. The bus pulls up after a moment of awkward silence, and we all take our seats. I sit in the back, beside a girl with purple streaked hair and a cute face. Apathetic, but cute.

In front of her, a boy wearing a highlighter for a shirt explains to her about his amazing powers. Glowing is so useless. He doesn't know that, obviously. I don't tell him otherwise.

I'm not sure what wakes me up more, the talk of at-home villains with dad or the bus ride to Sky High. I see, now, why it's called Sky High. It's literally in the sky. Fun.

The moment our bus driver, Ron Wilson, lets us off the bus, a sigh exhales out of my mouth. The school isn't bad looking. It actually isn't bad at all. It's big, with clean, clear windows and a large sign that says "WELCOME TO SKY HIGH." and a squad of girls in orange cheerleading suits clapping and skipping around while screaming an annoying song that rhymes. Then, as the cheer ends, the other girls morph back into each other. It's then that I realize that "they" were all the same girl with the same soft brown skin. Layla, who I hadn't noticed was beside me until now, snorts.

"That's Penny. She was expelled last year and had to repeat senior year." Layla murmurs to me. She doesn't articulate anymore, but I already know that Layla means she's one of the minions of Royal Pain. Maybe speaking of those big-bad three is a crime at Sky High. I press my lips together.

"She's the one who helped Royal Pain?"  
"Yup. She can duplicate herself." I blink.

"I can see that." We both begin to walk, bypassing the contrastingly different faces that watch my every move, like the word "FRESHMAN" is tattooed in bright red on my forehead. I meet eyes with a few people from the bus, and a few who have arrived before us - that glow boy, the one that I've been told he goes by Zach, speaks to the purple girl and gives me a small glance before turning back to her. Another boy, one with glasses and dark skin, gives me the same face. I frown. Do I look as scared as I feel?

Layla purses her lips. Our eyes connect for a second, until I feel like the look is burning my skin and I look away suddenly. Just as spontaneously, she bends down - because I'm a whopping five feet tall - and her voice lowers.

"Don't look now, but, ah, _they_ noticed you." My brow furrows.

"They?" I ask, louder than I probably should. Layla tells me to "Shhhh!" before I finish, and then she freezes abruptly. Her body stiffens.

I don't have time to speak.

The moment I look up, a flash of brown, orange and blue makes my eyes blurry. My hair flies around my face and wind blows through my ears, like someone circling me in an antagonizing run, and my body becomes rigid. Now, brown, orange and blue are all I see.

Suddenly, the flashes stop. A chubby, pale boy wearing a brown jacket, and a blue and orange stripped shirt stands in front of me with a trade mark bad-boy smirk and crossed arms. Then a boy on the stairs stretches his body to disproportionate lengths and back-bends his way to us. When he reaches the chubby boy, he falls back into normal body length. He's a good thirteen or fourteen inches taller than me, with a skull shirt patterned in black and white strips and messy brown hair. He's cute, in a roguish way. The boy lopsidedly smiles.

"Lookie here, Speed, _fresh-meat,_" the tall, skinny boy says. I purse my lips. The other boy, Speed, smirks.

"I like your hair, fresh-meat, you just _have_ to tell me where you get it done," Speed says, harshly grabbing a few strands of my red hair in with his baseball mitt hands. He pulls on it enough to hurt my head, and instinctively I slap his hand away. I have half a mind to burn him. But I wont. I'm smarter than that. Speed jerks his hand back, and frowns. I scowl back.

"You're really fast, don't you think you'd be skinnier?" Speed's face twists.

"What did you just say, fresh-meat!? I can dunk your head into the toilets until you drown for saying that, you little punk - "

" - Dude," the brunette interrupts. He stares at me with muddy brown eyes and flashes that smug, lopsided smile. I stare back at him, but my expression doesn't shift. "We don't hit girls, we just torment the ugly ones and _hit on_ the hot ones." Oh, I wonder how lucky they are with the girls. I'm not even sure if chubby has ever had a date. Maybe, _maybe_ the lanky one. He's not necessarily ugly, but his personality makes him a slop. Speed moves his glare at the tall boy.

"Lash, that ugly bitch called me fat - " Speed points at me with a finger that has dirt under the nails. I flinch.

Lash and Speed. What odd names.

Lash puts a rough hand on Speed's shoulder. He's got short palms, and long, bony fingers.

" - She ain't ugly, though." He murmurs, as if he doesn't want me to hear. I do, though. Super hearing isn't exactly my super power of the sort, but my hearing is twenty/twenty perfect.

Even after Lash tries to reason, Speed doesn't look convinced.

I'm not convinced, either.

I don't like accepting compliments.

"What happened to bros before hoes!?" He yells back. Layla makes a noise that begs for attention, somewhere in between a grunt, a sigh, and a laugh, and their gazes shift.

"Boys, you're in enough trouble as it is with Principal Powers, do you really think that picking on a freshman will help you in your predicament?" Layla speaks matter-of-factly. Despite her nice exterior outlook on everything and her gracious personality, she has a sharp voice, especially when she's angry. It's probably the only thing that's semi-threatening about her. She really is a flower girl. A much-too-nice, much-too-friendly, much-too-caring flower girl.

Speed makes a confused pout face.

"Predica-wha - "

" - It means situation." Lash replies too quickly, like he's planned the answer out, word by word, his entire life. I stare at him for a moment, but then look back at Layla. Because quite frankly, I just like looking at her more than him. Cute or not, he's a bully. The way that he talks, the things that he says and the people that he hangs out with all tie to the conclusion that he's a bully. A sadistic, power-hungry, selfish, rude, _disgusting_ bully. I hate bullies. Every single one of them.

And cute or not, this Lash boy is no exception.

Layla sighs through her nose.

"So, please, may we get passed?" She says with crossed arms. Speed rolls his eyes as his face fills with disdain, but his displeasure is the least of my problems. Actually, I like that he isn't pleased. He's a bully, too. Lash sticks his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and turns away. He's the first one to walk back to the school steps. When Speed leaves to follow, Layla presses her lips together and puts a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry about them. They worked with Royal Pain last year, but the school was generous enough to let them come back and repeat their senior year. I voted that they couldn't come back, but unfortunately…" Her voice trials off. I stare at them as their figures become tiny, and they are farther away until I can't see them. I make a face.

"How many times did they repeat senior year?" I mumble, sarcastically. Layla shrugs.

"Speed, a couple of times. He's already nineteen. I'm not sure about Lash, though. He's turning seventeen in May. I'm not even sure he's failed until last year." My eyebrows raise. I'm still not looking at her, but now I don't know what I am looking at. I think the place that they once stood is what I'm looking at.

Finally, my head turns. Layla is staring at me incisively. I give a weak, unconvincing smile.

"I have to get to the gym for power placement. Wish me luck." I say quietly. I begin to make my way, but I'm held back by Layla. She grabs me by the arm, squeezing like if she doesn't, I might try to escape.

"What's your power?" She asks. The hazel in her eyes burn with apprehension. I gulp, but give back a reassuring smile. Or, at least, what I hope is a reassuring smile. With my luck, I probably look more scared. She doesn't smile back.

"It's pretty hot." It's the last thing I say before I speed-walk off.

Ha-ha. I'm punny.

* * *

I don't really care for labels. I get them all the time. I don't necessarily hate getting put in some emo/scene clique, but labels in general aren't my thing. Just because I have bright hair and dark, overly done makeup doesn't mean I want to be with a bunch of other kids with bright hair and dark, overly done makeup. I definitely don't want to have a different name just because of it. I just find labels unnecessary and stupid.

Even the labels hero or sidekick get kind of old quickly.

The entire gym is filled of kids with last names I to Z, alphabetically lined up in rows of ten each. Maybe there are thirty kids in all. Maybe I'm the shortest one here. I sling my book sack on the side of the gym before taking my place by a girl with short blonde hair. She gives me an up and down look. Our eyes connect, but not for long. We face the front as suddenly as we faced each other. There, the same cheerleader girl from earlier - Penny was her name, or maybe Penelope - has her arms crossed and a heavy frown on her face.

"But Coach Boomer, this isn't _far!_" She screams in a high pitched, over-exaggerated voice. It makes my ears bleed, listening to it from here. Coach Boomer puffs out a breath.

"Look, Penny, I don't actually _care_ that you don't think it's fair. Principal Power's rules were that you three have to retake power placement or you can't retake senior year." Coach Boomer says, with annoyance laced in his voice. I don't blame him. Penny's makes an unpleasant face.

"But I'm already a hero!"

"You definitely didn't act like one last year, might I remind you." Coach spits back. Suddenly, the room that was just moments ago filled with hums and murmurs becomes abruptly silent. Penny wont say a word. Her pride is too damaged to say anything. I can't help but feel a smirk spread on my lips.

I don't usually enjoy being this sadistic. But hey, she's a bully, too. Just like the over-weight, quick guy, or the cute, lanky one with narcissist issues. I mean, they were all aspiring villains at one point or another. So maybe this once, it's okay to laugh at their misery.

Oh, how bitter that makes me sound.

"Where are the other two?" He snorts, just in time as the two enter the gym. Late. Sure, I've only been at this school for a solid fifteen minutes, but I kind of figured out in those fifteen minutes that late is kind of their thing.

"Nice to see that you two decided to come," Boomer mutters. "Your spots are assigned alphabetically by last names, so get there." The two boys begin to walk. And it makes me wonder what their spots are going to be, because unlike the new freshman, they don't have name tags. Penny stands by kids with S last names. S and K are fairly separated from each other. Not as far as I'd like us to be -preferably A to Z - but it will due.

Speed and Lash walk together like a pack of wannabe bad-boys until Speed has to make his way to R and Lash to J. He's about four people away from me, but that's not far enough. My frown makes my lips turn downwards. But I can't help but look in his general direction, until I'm actually looking at him.

I stare at him for a moment.  
And then another moment.  
He looks back at me, as if he can feel my gaze.  
He looks at me for long moments, too.  
Another moment passes.  
And then another.  
One more moment of nothing but staring, studying each other's features and details.  
And then we've been looking at each other for too long; a blood-red, embarrassed-blush covers my cheeks.

Lash makes that foolish lopsided smile and waves at me, goofily. He's cute and he knows it. He'll take advantage of it to get to me. My eyes narrow, and my arms slink together until they're folded.

Stupid kid. Doesn't he know I'm not like those easy girls, and that I don't fall for guys, just like that?

I say kid, but he's a year years older than me and fourteen inches taller than me.

The entire ceremony itself isn't that bad. Sure, sometimes there are some oddball powers, like camouflage skin or turning fingers into icicles. There's a lot more generic powers, like flying or super strength. Yes, that was a Commander and Jetstream reference. And yes, I'm one of those generic power house jocks. No, I'm not proud to be one of those power house jocks. Actually, I'm not proud to have powers at all. Or proud to be in Sky High. Or proud to hate nearly everyone on my first day. I don't remember the last time I was very proud of anything that's related to me.

I guess it happens when you have insecure teenage syndrome. Wee.

I'm lost into my pointless, hormone raged thoughts until Coach calls my name in an over-spoken tone. I must not have heard him before. By the red, angry blush on his face and Coach's balled up, shaking fists, I definitely didn't hear him before. And, maybe I've triggered his biggest pet-peeve. Short, hormonal, red headed, idiot-teenagers not listening to him while he talks.

I glance in Coach Boomer's angry eyes, and then behind him where the freshmen who have already participated in power placement rest on the other side of the gym in mixed-matched groups of friends. Over there, I see the lanky boy, Lash, sitting down on the floor with the rest of the students, parted at a distance away from everyone else, just waiting for Speed. I sigh. He might be a bully, but at least he has _friends._ But I guess it'll be alright if I don't have those. I mean, I haven't had a solid 'friend' for a few years, now.

I move onto the stage before Coach Boomer's face becomes any redder, and face towards him. His eyes become narrow, until I can't see the green light anymore.

"Word of advice; I don't like kids who don't listen to me. Are we clear?" He says with a growl. I nod, and murmur a "yes, sir." It pains me to add the sir part. Actually, it pains me to be respectful to anyone I don't like, but I can manage it. Maybe if he weren't glaring so much, I wouldn't mind sincerely trying out this respect idea.

Coach Boomer clears his throat.

"I said," he begins, slowly, "ARE. WE. CLEEEEEEAAAAR?" The entire gym shakes. The ground, the pillars, the walls, everything. My hair flies behind me, and momentarily I feel like the wind, alone, will throw me off my feet. The gym fills with the nasty smell of morning breath, garlic and mouth wash. I wonder what he's been eating for breakfast.

Now, I understand why he's called Coach Boomer.

Sonic Boom. Boomer.

Ha.

"Yes, sir." I say, this time taking the liberty to make sure I'm loud enough. Hopefully, I am.

Coach pulls his hat off his head to quickly run a meaty hand through his dark hair, and then fixates it atop his head. It's blue and white, just like the rest of his uniform.

"Your power, miss Karly."

"I can shoot fireballs out of my hands." I say too swiftly. It's not out of fear that I talk too fast. I'm not afraid of him. I just want to get this over with as soon as possible. Coach's brown brows raise.

"Aaah, really? Shoot, then." He presses a button on a remote controller, and in the front and back of the gym, two targets begin to form onto the top of two pillars. They're not large, probably no bigger than Speed's head - he does have a rather large head, though - but are brightly distinguished by their red and white stripes. It's almost like looking at badly bleached white teeth with blood stains.

It takes me no time to form little fire balls in my hands. I usually like staring at them; they're quite pretty when they're not burning your flesh.

I'm not effected by fire. That never happens to me.

Still, the array of red, orange and yellow in a watercolor mixture is really a lovely one. It's fun to watch the colors swirl around each other and spark and crackle. But I'm running on borrowed time, so I don't stare at them; I just shoot behind me, and then in front of me without breaking a sweat or loosing a breath. The two flame balls hit the targets.

The bad side to having superhero parents and super powers is that my dad makes me train with him a lot. Hey, at least I have an adequate sense of aim.

And for a moment, I think hope flew back into Coach Boomer's eyes.

"Good job, Karly. Hero." He says, pointing at the spot where the heroes sit at, waiting for power placement to end. I press my lips together, scoping out the taken space. Penny talks to her duplicates, laughing and gossiping so the entire gym is filled with the sound of her giggles. Lash sits alone, and I keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't trip me.

When you have the power to stretch your entire body, I figure that would be easier to do.

Coach shoving and yelling at me makes me realize that I've been standing on the stage for too long. I step off before he can use his microphone voice, but hesitate where to sit. I mean, I don't know anyone. Or I plainly hate them.

Yes, _hate_ was a reference to Sky High's wannabe villains.

I make a lot of references.

I sit in a corner beside two girls who twirl their hair and laugh about boys. I don't mean to listen, for the most part I try not to. Talk of boys and muscles and feminine looking celebrities and idiotic girl things bore me. But when the name Lash falls out their mouth, I can't help it.

I wonder what my interest in him is.

"Did you see the red-headed girl looking at _Lash?_" One of the girl's say. I don't think they're trying to be mean about it; the way that she speaks doesn't suggest cruelty, but curiosity. Why was I looking at that boy; why was I blushing? They must not know I'm near them. The other girl sighs.

"The short one? I thought she was pretty." Obvious lie.

"That's not the point, Chasidee, she was looking at _Lash!_"  
"So?"  
"Do you think they're dating?" When she says that, I try my hardest not to spit some vulgar insult back to defend why I would never date Lash.

I manage, but it's a poor attempt. It's a miracle that they didn't hear me. Chasidee shrugs.

"I don't know. Isn't Lash a bad guy?"  
"Yeah, he is! He's kind of cute though, don't you think?" I could disagree with that, but if I did I'd be lying to myself. I don't mind lying.

"He's kind of scrawny and his hair is _waaaaaaay_ too long, and isn't he gay with Speed or something? Like, aren't all guys who have long hair gay?" Chasidee says, and my eyes narrow. Without a thought, a grunt escapes my mouth and my eyes roll. The two girls slightly jump and turn their heads. Their expressions soften. My mouth goes dry.

Unintentionally giving myself the attention. Why am I not surprised that I'd act without thinking? Mostly because I've grown used to acting without thinking when the time calls for it.

The two girls stare at me with wide eyes, and I stare back.

I might as well continue.

I clear my throat.

"You know, saying that all guys who have long hair are gay is like saying that all guys with bald heads are actually bald eagles. You sound really stupid when you say that - "

" - So you two are dating?" The other girl, the brunette with a fat face, asks. My face goes pale… _paler._ But my expression hardens.

"What - "

"What was your first date like? Was it romantic? Did he dress up really nicely? Assuming that you've seen him shirtless, is he really that skinny or is he toned or - "

"What do you mean _assuming that I've seen him shirtless?_" I growl. The brunette girl sheepishly smiles.

"If you've gone swimming together or…_you know what…_" She says, smirking. My frown feels heavier. I glance back at Lash.

Note to self: Never go swimming with Lash. Never do _you know what_ with Lash. Kill the brunette.

I look back at the other girl with a scowl heavier than before.

"He's not my boyfriend, in fact, he's not even my friend. And you shouldn't ask someone if they've… _had sex_ with another person before. You're, like, fourteen - "

" - So are you!" Chasidee whines back. I huff a breath.

"No, I'll be sixteen in October, and I know better than to ask about someone having intercourse with another, or talking behind their backs, or being closed minded. Grow up or shut up." The brunette opens her mouth, but I turn around and scoot away before she can speak. Her voice falters. I can still hear her talk, mostly about me, but I try not to listen.

_Don't listen, just try to ignore them.  
__Don't listen don't listen don't listen don't listen._

But soon they're all I can hear.

_"That was such a bitchy outburst."  
__"If she keeps acting like that, she'll never have a boyfriend."  
__"Her bitch personality makes her ugly."  
__"She wasn't gorgeous to begin with."  
__"I hate people like her."  
__"I hate her."_

Hate.  
They hate me.

They hate me and they don't even know me.  
Or my issues.  
Or my personality.  
Or my life.

They hate me.

I guess that's okay, though. If I were them, I would probably hate me, too.

I mean, I am pretty horrible.

My attention shifts when Coach Boomer calls my name. My head darts up, staring at him with wide eyes. I blink.

"Sir?"

"The office called for you and a few other students. Principal Powers wants to talk to you."

* * *

I'm not really sure why I'm being called to the office. I mean, I've only been a Sky High student for an hour. Maybe Principal Powers woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Or maybe I'm just that horrible.

Probably the second one.

Lash, Penny, Speed and two other students follow, though, so it must be a group effort. I've never seen the other two kids before, a girl and a boy with freckly faces and orange hair. Must be twins. They weren't in the gym earlier. They can't be new.

The office doors are about a foot taller than Lash, coated in dark black metal and a chrome handle. The sudden contrast of colors, from white walls to solid black doors, looks awkward at first. Once I look at the black door, looking at the white walls hurt my eyes.

Speed is the first person to walk in, without knocking, and suddenly we all begin to flood the room. Principal Powers wears a frown on her face. I frown, too. I always frown, though. It's nothing new.

"Penny, will you close the door, please?" She asks with a smooth, soft voice. She sounds like she wants to yell, but she wont. Or she can't. Penny does as told. When the door closes, my body stiffens.

I'm in a room filled with villains who tried to take over the school, and possibly the world.

And the sad thing is, I think one of them is cute.

An evil, disgusting, narcissistic bully, but cute.

Principal Powers clears her throat.

"As you should know, I allowed you three," She points at Lash, Penny and Speed, "back into Sky High as a favor. I still believe that you, as students of Sky High, can emerge out of your tainted reputations and take on a new role as graduates; _heroes,_ even, from Sky High. You just… ah, need a little… _assistance_ to reach that goal." She says _assistance_ in the same tone that she would say _solitary confinement._ But I'm sure Gwen Grayson is already taking up that space.

"That's why we have you three," Principal Powers continues, staring at the two ginger kids, and then me. Her glance towards me seems more intimate, and intense. I stare down at my hands.

"You three have been assigned as _travel buddies_ for Penny, Speed and Lash, to make sure they're on task, to make sure they're following the rules, and to help with their own special needs. Penny, you'll be assigned with Rita," Then she points at the ginger girl. My heart drops into my stomach.

I'm either going to be, ahem, _travel buddies_ with Lash or Speed.

Oh boy. The fun.

That was sarcasm.

"You're going to be assigned to Rita because you need a friend with a great, _grounded_ personality. Hanging out with your duplicates is not healthy, and might be the result of your alliance with Royal Pain last year. Confusion between fantasy and reality with your duplicates, don't you think?" By the look Penny makes, she's not thrilled. If I was Rita, I wouldn't be happy, either. She's whiny and rude. If anything, she's probably always been best friends with herself. Principal Powers dismisses the two before going on.

She looks at Speed, next, and places her hands on her lap.

"Speed, you'll be assigned partners with Gregory because you need _guidance._ I was recently in a meeting with your mother, and she agrees that due to your empathetic disorder, your multiple academic failures and your experiments with drug abuse and alcohol abuse, she thinks it'll be best for you. Gregory, here, is a genius, and he's a gifted fighter. He's planned out a great future for himself, and I'm sure with his help, you can, too!" Speed glares at her.

"I _have_ to do this?"

"Yes, you do. Remember, it's for the interest of you, not me. As principal of Sky High, not only do I want to see you use your powers full extend for good, but it's also my job to make sure my students are safe. Now, you and Gregory are dismissed." I'm not surprised that Speed has experimented with drugs and alcohol. Someone at this school was bound to try it on for size. When Speed exits, his slams the door in Gregory's face, leaving poor, poor Greg shocked. Then, he follows. The door closes.

And then there were two.

Principal Power's face darkens.

"For the sake of secrecy, I saved yours for last, Lash. I know it's not an easy topic to talk about, and I respect that," She begins. As if a multiple personality disorder and drug/alcohol abuse along with an empathetic disorder is _easy._

First, she straightens her stance, placing her legs in the right position and keeping her back straight, prim, and proper. I turn my head to Lash. He's already looking at the floor.

"Lash, academically, you're a very gifted student. I don't just mean superhero wise, either; the records in your file show that you're astonishingly smart in normal school subjects. You were even allowed to skip seventh grade and move into eighth! Even if you couldn't succeed as a superhero, you could greatly succeed in the normal world as a regular human being with special… _enhancements_ in your body. If you would have the will to work in class, you would have a very bright future ahead of you," A sigh falls out of her lips. "I know that when you're a teenager, it's hard to… I guess you can say, _love_ yourself, but can you honestly say you loved yourself as a villain? Or did you find becoming a villain as another form of self-mutilation, or a mask?" Principal Powers asks. I gasp quietly at the word I'm all too familiar with.

A moment passes. He doesn't answer.  
Another moment.  
No answer.

Principal Powers purses her lips.

"I also know that, since you're a boy, it's ultimately harder to talk about your feelings, but it's very unhealthy to keep them in like you do. I decided for Reagan to be your partner because you need someone to _talk_ to when you're feeling depressed, instead of hiding it. And Reagan, here, shares a past similar to yours when it comes to depression and self-mutilation." My heart feels like it's stopped beating in my chest.

I stare at Lash with wide, scared eyes. He doesn't look back at me.

Similar pasts.

We can't.

_Him?_

Self-mutilation?

It can't be.

_He_ couldn't.

He doesn't.

But apparently, he does.

Self-mutilate.

Or, at least, he used to.

But _why?_

He's the _bully!_

_He_ isn't the one who is self-mutilating; _he_ is the one who should be making people self-mutilate.

He's the _bully!_

He _makes_ people depressed.

He can't _be_ the one who's depressed.

He's the kind of person that made me depressed.

The kind of person that made me start, when I was so young as twelve.

The kind of person that ruined me.

_He_ can't be the _same_ as _me!_

_He_ can't be the same person who self-mutilated!

Self-mutilation.

The dictionary term for self-mutilation is, "_**hurting self:**__ self-inflicted injury._"

My term was painting pictures on my skin with a razor until the canvas turned red.

Cutting.

Save your pity.

I don't want it.

Is it the same for him, too?

_Is that why he wears long sleeves?_

It would make sense. Sleeves cover up everything nicely. Scars included.

They say that when a bully bullies someone, they actually just feel bad about themselves. A bully calling someone ugly is actually a bully calling themselves ugly. A bully causing someone pain means that they want the other person to be brought down to the same level as they feel. Utter shit. Maybe even enough to want to hurt themselves.

Long sleeves? Check.  
Bully? Check.  
Now all we need is an over-reactive chick with red hair. Check.

"So, to help, I've made sure that you two attend every class together, and it's mandatory that you're to stay with each other unless one has to report to the restroom or anything of the sort. If you ever feel a sudden urge to hurt yourself or a wave of depression, tell the teacher and he'll gladly escort you two into the detention room for _safe _alone counselling." I frown.

"But I'm a freshman, and he's a senior? How are we going to be in same classes with our grade differences?"

"All your classes are mixed grades, anyways, I just made sure you two are at least together in the classes." Principal Powers straightens the papers on her desk. I'd think that her desk would be a cluttered mess, but in reality, it's quite organized. As organized as running a school of five-hundred kids can get.

"Depending on your grades, though, I _might_ have the power to let you skip a grade. Your records show that you're supposed to be a sophomore, correct?" She says. I nod.

"Yes, ma'am." I say back, sheepishly smiling. I glance at Lash, and the smile disappears. He's got his head down and his hands in his pockets. His face has turned red, but I can't tell if it's from embarrassment or anxiety. Principal Power's lips purse.

"Lash, this is to _help_ you, not embarrass you. I really think if you put effort into this, you'll really benefit from it." He still frowns, though. No one says anything back. Principal Powers heaves a sigh.

"I have to let you two go. I'll e-mail Dr. Medulla a note about your whereabouts, he'll understand. Good luck to you both," She says with a weak smile. It disappears as spontaneously as it appeared. Lash leaves before I do, but I'm fast to follow him. I'm small, and my bones are thinner, so I'm not as strong as him, but I am faster than he is and it isn't hard to catch up to him, even when he's halfway across the hall. Stupid, stretchy legs.

We walk side by side, silently. It's going to be a long walk. Dr. Medulla's office is on the other side of the school, closer to the gym and the cafeteria than it is to Principal Power's office and the detention room. I wonder what the detention room is like.

I'm sure that, with Lash as my "travel buddy," I'll be seeing a lot more of that room than I'd like to.

Lash clears his throat. Or, at least, I think he did. It sounds more like a growl than anything.

"Listen, _fresh-meat,_" He says, bitterly. In mere seconds, his face has gone from scared and pathetic to dark and resentful. Even the light-hearted brown in his eyes start to burn with anger. I gulp. His voice is quiet and restrained. It'd be hard to hear him if he hadn't taken the liberty of bending down. Shortness, it's a curse.

"If you mention any of what she said to anyone, including Speed, including your _parents,_ I'll stick your head into the toilet until you drown." My parents, I didn't even think about my parents knowing about this. My dad obviously hates anything to do with Gwen Grayson. Lash included.

Not only his he associated with Gwen Grayson, he's a bully. My parents know about what I went through because of bullies. I confessed up maybe a year ago. They've never liked bullies, but they've hated them ever since. What would they think if they found out I have to be with one until he graduates?

I gulp my apprehension down.

"Who am I supposed to tell, my _reflection?_"

"You know what I mean! Don't speak a word about… the things Principal Powers said to anyone, ever." His face softens. Mine doesn't. His face is like a TV screen, broadcasting pure desperation to whoever's watching.

He's scared of people knowing.

"Just… promise me." Lash says, weakly. At first glance, he comes off as brash, egotistical and aggressive. But now he's the opposite. He just looks…

Well, he just looks broken.

I sigh.

"I promise." I say, lowly. Lash takes a breath, and we continue walking. I take a couple of glances at him from time to time, soaking in what he looks like, what he wears, his hair, his eyes, his body-type, the little details that I usually don't care about. He'll be my "travel buddy" for the rest of the year. I might as well get used to looking at his features.

Lash glances back at me. His face as reverted back to smug and disgusted. No shocker there.

"What are you looking at?" He grumbles, staring back off at the halls. I press my lips together, too scared to answer, but the question is literally eating away at my brain. I inhale and exhale a heavy breath.

"Can I see them?" I blurt, but instantly regret saying. Lash freezes. He doesn't look at me, but he stops walking.

"See what?" Lash asks, slowly dragging out each word as if I wouldn't understand otherwise. Another gulp.

"Ah… you know…"

"_See what?_" He repeats, this time louder, and angrier. I ball my hands into fists and my face turns the direction opposite of Lash, so I stare at nothing but greenish tinted lockers.

"Your scars, okay? I want to see if they're real. If _you're real._" I regret saying that, too. But I did it.

Lash doesn't move.

I don't, either.

I hear him gulp, frightened by the thought. He takes in a long, surplus breath of air as if he's trying to fill his lungs up like helium balloons. Probably to overpower the pressure his heart makes in his chest. I'm not for certain about that. But I've been in similar predicaments where someone asks of something you wanted no one to know.

It's not essentially the easiest thing to talk about.

I hear footsteps and instantly thing that he's walking away, but he's instead walked towards me with a pulled up sleeve. It's weird seeing his arms. They're paler than the rest of his body - probably from being covered up all the time - and they're skinny. Lines, little faded red ones, mark up and down every inch of his skin and form nasty cuts. I stare at them. Line after line after line after line.

I don't care about Lash.

Oh, not in the least bit.

But seeing someone in so much pain that they'd do this to themselves is what gets to me.

I don't cry, no, I'm not weak.

_In public._

But I feel like I might.

Lash pulls down the sleeve and continues to walk.

"Happy?" He asks, sarcastically. Not the playful kind of sarcastic. The painful kind.

Still, I can't seem to move from my place.

So, he is real.

He has been through something that I have.

So, maybe I shouldn't hate him so much, so spontaneously.

Maybe I shouldn't hate him for being a bully, being the thing that I swore I'd never want to be or be around.

I do, though.

Some opinions never really change, do they?

**A/N: Hello. I just want to say, before anyone says anything about "Lash never doing that - he's too arrogant/egotistical/OOC to ever self-mutilate," let me explain to you that you ****_can hide your true feelings and pretend to be something you're not._**** I, from experience, know that it is not hard to come off as the happiest person alive and still cut. Actually, it doesn't take a lot to fool someone about how you're feeling. Lash could easily be fooling anyone by putting on a smile, a tough exterior outlook and some long sleeves. Now, obviously I know that, in the actual movie, Lash doesn't self-mutilate. It's a children's movie, a touchy subject like that wouldn't ever be featured on the plot line. But the fact of the matter is, in real life, if Sky High and Lash did really exist, there'd be a m****_ore than likely_**** chance that he would, being a generic high school bully. When you're a bully, you're not just a bully because you like hurting people. You don't grow up****_ "enjoying to hurt people."_**** You're not born a ****_"sadistic, killing machine."_**** Sometimes, it's an empathetic disorder, which is a ****_serious mental illness,_**** or sometimes it's depression, which is a ****_serious mental illness._**** Usually, you bully because you're upset with yourself. You bully because something in your life has led you to it. Also, about Lash being OOC? We don't know. Lash in the movie was never put in this situation, so we never know how he'd truly react until the official creators of Lash himself told us. This is my idea of how he'd react, ****_realistically speaking,_**** because facts that I have gathered, and my own experiences of life have lead me to this conclusion. You don't have to respect my opinion and my idea and interpretation on Lash, but if you hate it, take that hate elsewhere. Also, if anyone in any way thinks that "emo" and "depression/self-mutilation/self hatred" have anything to do with one-another, ****_stop._**** I'm not portraying Lash as an, ****_"emo boy who cries in his room and listens to soft rock music while cutting himself for attention,"_**** I'm portraying him as a ****_"boy who has a serious mental illness/problem with himself that he doesn't know how to talk about, therefore takes it out on others (where bullying comes in) and himself (where self-mutilation comes in)"_**** because I find that the realistic reason why he bullies. I'd apologize if I was sorry. :D **

**I'm terribly sorry that this A/N has gotten so long, I'm usually not like this but I feel like I needed to let everyone who's viewed this to the end to know before I carry on~ 3. Thanks for reading, and enjoying it if you did! Hopefully, the story will be more plot ridden as more chapters pour in! Until next time~ ^^**


	2. Me, You, and My Medication

Lash and I make it into Dr. Medulla's class just before the bell rings for second period.

At first, Dr. Medulla's large, vein-covered head bothers and scares me. I cannot help but stare at it for long periods of time while he instructs us where we're to sit and gives us books to put in our book-sacks, and other school-essential things. Finally, a sigh is released from his mouth and he says, directly to me, "Miss Karly, I'd greatly appreciate it if you would stop staring at my head. I realize it is quite large and unusual to you. You will grow used to it." And then he assigns us to our table. And we don't speak another word. And that is that.

Lash and I are assigned to a metal table with two seats in the back and we sit next to each other. We do not say a word, though, because there is nothing to say and the teacher is talking. I don't think anyone else realizes how quiet Lash is or how well he listens while Dr. Medulla talks, and it makes me wonder.  
About him.  
And his situation.  
And his life.  
And if he's thinking about me.  
And my situation.  
And my life.

I wonder what he's gone through that makes him the way he is. I wonder what makes him so sad that he'd do these things to himself. And I wonder why he won't interrupt class or throw pencils at Speed, who sits two tables away, or something to acknowledge that is he breathing and living and participating and human. But he doesn't. Or he won't. Those are two different things, I think.

And so I listen. And I pay attention. And I don't participate because that seems like the correct thing to do, even if it isn't the right thing to do. Those are also different things, too, I think. I'm not sure. It's all very confusing.

I can see Dr. Medulla's lips move but my mind doesn't register his words. I'm not sure why. Actually, I think I do.

My brain is too distracted by the thought of the tall boy who sits by me. I'm attracted to him. But in a different way. It is a curious kind of attraction. I hate saying that because I know it hurts when you have to tell someone about your problems when they're only curious and they don't care. If I talk to someone about how I'm feeling, I want to _know_ that they care about the fact that I'm sad, and I'm really not okay. And I'm sure he feels the same; I'm sure when push comes to shove and he has to tell me his problems, he'll want me to care and not listen just to hear another sob story. No one would want that.

But we have been forced into this sort of partnership, and I don't know if hoping for me to care instead of being curious is realistic.

Because I don't. And I'm sure he doesn't, either.

I am brought back to reality by a note that brushes against my elbow that lies on the desk, and my head turns. It is folded and wrinkled and definitely from Lash. I slide it to me and open it whilst eyeing Dr. Medulla. I do not think he would care if he saw us reading notes to each other in class, even if he acted like he did. All the other teachers treat Lash and I differently. When we were walking through the halls and the teachers saw who we were, their bodies stiffened and they stared as we walked. I think we make them nervous. I would say I don't know why but I would be lying. Because I do. And he does, too.

I unfold the note and begin to read his messy, dark handwriting.

_"What's your name again? Sorry, I forgot."_

It shocks me that he knows proper grammar and punctuation, but it is a good kind of shock. I think I am more relieved than anything. Then, I remember that Principal Powers said he incredibly smart. That is good that he is smart. Being smart is good, or so I hear. It is more manageable for me. People who are smart are easier for me to talk to, because I am smart, too. I'm just a slacker when it comes to any form of schoolwork. I don't know why I don't apply myself. I just don't.

I grab his pencil because I don't have my own, and begin writing.

_"I'm Reagan Karly. It's whatever. Is your real name Lash?"  
"Why do you want to know?"  
"I'm curious." _

This time, when Lash gives me back the note, a funny grin is on his face. Not the lopsided smile like he has with Speed, this one is sincere and kinder. I take a mental image of it because I know I will not see it for long or very often and that makes me sad because it is a very natural and nice smile. I wish he would use it more. Maybe he's afraid to because smiling is a nice gesture and he's a bully, he doesn't play nice. I don't know. I think I'm over-thinking this, and maybe he just doesn't feel like this is a lopsided-smile kind of moment. I really don't know.

I say that a lot.

_"No, my real name isn't Lash."  
"Then what is it?"  
"Promise you won't make fun of me for it?" _

And this time, when I pass him the note, I am the one who is making the funny grin.

_"I promise."  
"My real name is Derek Jace. When I first met Speed he said it was cool how I'd 'lash' out at an enemy and said that'd be a cool nickname. It just kind of stuck." _

When I read this I begin to feel warm inside. I think it just makes me very happy that Lash has let me in on the secret that is his name. If I were known by one thing and one thing only, telling someone the name no one hears, that is almost like an unknown piece of me, would be very hard and intimate. I feel like only the very special people deserve to know information like this and I am not special. I am just a girl that he is forced to partner with due to unfortunate similar pasts and odd timing.

_"Why would I laugh at that? It's a normal name. Can I call you Derek instead of Lash? It feels more formal."  
"Not at school. It'd be too weird." _

As if we'd meet up outside of school. I don't want to meet up with him after school, as cruel as it sounds. Even if I have had thirty minutes to sit down, cool down and think about the good that could come out of this, I am still pessimistic and I still see the bad over it.

We are two depressed kids that have issues involving sharp objects. What are we going to do with each other? Lash has already told me that if he is not one to share how he feels and I cannot change him. I have no authority or place to do it. I don't know or trust him well enough to talk to him about how I feel. So even if we do learn to tolerate each other, the closest we can ever come to "friends" is cutting our skin for each other.

_"Is that suggesting that we'll be seeing each other outside of school?"  
"Not necessarily. Just don't call me Derek."_

A sigh leaves my mouth. I shouldn't feel so bad about not liking him. He doesn't even like me, so the feeling is mutual. It shouldn't bother me but it does and I can't quite figure out why.

_"What about your cuts?"_

It doesn't surprise me when I read this. Actually, I think it not surprising me is what really surprises me. A few years ago I would have crawled into a ball and wanted to die from hearing or reading those words. Now I am unaffected. I wonder what has happened in those few years. It can't be successful recovery. Because I haven't had that. But I'm trying.

_"They're on my legs and stuff. That's why I have the stockings."  
"Oh, I see. Do your parents know about your… issues?" _

The wording doesn't bother me. I don't see why, in the movies, the word bothers people. What else is he supposed to call them? They're definitely not perks.

_"Yeah, they do. I've been trying to get clean for awhile, now. Do your parents know about yours?"  
"No." _

It is all he writes. And I pause.

I probably shouldn't write this. I don't want to be pushy, or butt into his personal life. That's why it's called "his personal life." Because it's personal.

But my pencil is already pressed to the paper, and there is no eraser on it. So I continue.

_"Have you considered recovery?"  
"No." _

Another pause. I really should stop. I put the pencil beside Lash's covered arm before I tempt myself to write another word, and then slide the note to him. He opens it and when he realizes nothing is there, he takes the pencil and beings to write.

_"So, while on this recovery thing... when was the last time you cut yourself?" _

A sigh eases its way out of my mouth.

_"A month ago, my parents don't know. Stupid scars still haven't healed. What about you?" _

I remember that day. It wasn't a good one. I remember all the fights, ones I was in and ones I heard, and all the built up anxiety and sadness that just kind of exploded out of me and I broke. I broke so badly. I was more than broke. I was shattered, like glass, and there was no way to glue the pieces back. I needed a release. Because surely if I didn't, I know with that mindset I had that month ago, I would have killed myself.

And I don't mean over-reactive slang, "omg my mom is so annoying im going to kms."  
No.  
I would have actually killed myself.

The first option felt better.

I mean, if you really think about it, I did my parents a favor. They didn't have to mourn, or hurt, or pay for a funeral. I couldn't be that selfish even if I tried. I'm sure they would have wanted me to pick the first option, too.

The note brushes against my skin and I look down, now not even worried about if Dr. Medulla sees or not because what he's talking about is futile. I take it in my hands and unfold it.

_"Last night."_

All I manage to say is, "oh."

And then every set of eyes turns to us, and I realize that I said that out loud. Dr. Medulla drops the marker in the racket. He gives us a long, hard glare but he does not move. Instead, he harshly shuts his eyes and rubs the temple of his giant head.

"Miss Karly, give me the note." But I can't remember how to walk. A minute goes by and I still don't remember. My body becomes rigid. That cannot be normal.

Lash must see this, because he takes the note from my hands and walks it to Dr. Medulla. His scowl at Lash is noticeably longer. Maybe because he's been in his class longer. He's had to deal with Lash a while more than me.

Dr. Medulla reads over it for a few minutes, letting the class begin their murmurs and suspicious rumors and forcing Lash and I to set through them. You would not believe the things some of these people think Lash and I discuss about. I guess suspecting that we're talking about naked body parts is more likely than talking about the last time we hurt ourselves. In the minds of hormonal ridden children it is, says the red-haired girl, as if she's any better.

The entire time that I watch his eyes scan the paper back and forth like a tennis match, my stomach digs a pit in itself. My heart beats so hard in my chest, that I can hear it on ever inch of my body. I am still tense and rigid. My eyes momentarily shift to Lash, and he is bent over his desk with his head looking down at his hands.

Dr. Medulla clears his throat. When he does, Lash and I look up and the entire class goes silent. He crumples the paper and throws it into the garbage can. Then, he stares at us. And not a "glance" kind of stare, but a legitimate stare that is long and disappointed and makes me feel like I'm on fire. He does not look angry anymore. He is stern, but it is honey coated with tinges and flavors of sad-disappointment and sympathy.

"Reagan, Lash, detention room. Now."

* * *

The room is white. Not dull, or yellow-white, but white like pure snow, or the whites of people's eyes or what is described as "heaven". I'm not sure what that actually looks like. I don't usually take the time to think about something I don't believe in.

In this room, there are two desks that Dr. Medulla makes us sit in. What he tells us is very basic.

"You two will sit in here and discuss what's wrong. I know something is. I'm very smart, you know, even with your complex generation I can see when something is wrong." He says with crossed arms. Lash stays very quiet. I don't know if it worries me or bothers me. Worries suggests caring. Bothers suggests annoyance. They are, in fact, two different things.

"Do we have to?" I ask, and my voice isn't rude, or angry. If a voice can be blank, that is exactly what it is. Dr. Medulla's dark eyes rot into mine. As if sounding dead is not enough, his eyes are lifeless. It suggests that he is not even human, but a large headed corpse that walks.

"Yes, you both have to, or I'll call your parents. _Both_ of your parents." Lash purses his lips. He becomes very stiff, like a robot, and his muscles tense. I don't think Dr. Medulla notices that Lash's hands are shaking, but I do because it is him I'm staring at.

Even though I cannot see it, I know that Dr. Medulla has walked out of the room because I can hear the door open and close by itself with a _whoosh._

He is still shaking. Even though Dr. Medulla is gone, Lash is shaking and nervous and anxious, but I don't know why.

I shouldn't call him out. I really shouldn't. I know this. But it is so tempting to know what's wrong, I'm so curious. I want to know why this bully is so sad. I want to know why this bully hurts himself. I want to know this bully's thoughts and reasons and I want to know him without caring about him.

I wish I could care about him. I really do. But I don't think I can ever respect someone like him, someone who's okay with hurting other people.

I just can't.

"You alright?" I murmur. Lash's eyes move to me, and then high up one of the walls, and then back to his hands.

"They're watching us," is all he manages. His voice is low, and so weak that it breaks. My eyebrows knit close together.

"What?"  
"They're watching us. They have cameras. They can see everything we do in this room, to make sure we're not just cutting class, or cutting…" His sentence falls silent. But I know it would have ended with "ourselves," or "each other."

"And is that a problem?"

"If we're supposed to talk about _feelings, _then yeah, it is." Lash snaps, but his face does not sound like his voice. He looks scared. He sounds annoyed, and anxiety ridden, and I'm not sure how he can manage both.

"Then we'll just not speak. The teachers will let us out eventually."  
"No, they won't. They'll wait until we say something to each other about our problems, and if we don't, we're stuck in here." Says Lash, who is now flicking his eyes back and forth, looking for something that isn't here.

"Then why don't you just say something?" I say back. He makes a noise, something like a growl and a desperate grunt.

"Why do you care all of a sudden?" I gulp.

"I don't. I just want to get out of here." Lash turns his head. His dull brown eyes gaze at me. It is not a spiteful stare. It is emotionless and dead, and the boy sitting by me contradicts the boy I met by the bus. It is like they are two different people. If you think about it, he really can be considered two people.

Lash, the brash bully who is aggressive, short tempered, cocky and thinks of himself better than his peers.

Derek, the anxious, sad boy who hides himself with sleeves and does not speak about the things he does to himself.

At first glance, Derek does not exist. But now, flickers of him coming to life are being shown at every angle, like a static television.

Now that I think about it, he could have been showing all along. No one ever looked hard enough to see him. Maybe that is the real problem, not that this boy was hiding, everyone just looked past this boy like he didn't exist.

"Sorry, wrong answer. I don't actually feel like being a story for you to listen to."  
"What is that supposed to mean?"  
"If I'm going to let you know these things about me, I'd like you to actually care about it. It's kind of useless if you don't." My eyebrows raise.

"Oh, I'm sorry? Does this make me the bad guy?"

"No. I don't care about you, either. I'm just saying… I'm sticking to what I believe in. You don't have any right to know, anyways. So just piss off." I hate that tone Lash is using. It's so rude, and disgusting, and like him. And usually I would say something just as rude back, because my temper is just like my powers, or my hair; fiery.

But it pieces together in my head that fighting is useless for us. And that he is right. What right do I have to know the most painful memories of his? His memories of self destruction and mutilation? I'm a girl he's met not even an hour or two ago. He is his own main protagonist in his own story, and I am just a background character. I'm no one of importance in his life. Who am I to interrupt his narration?

"Well then, why can't I just burn the door down? I'm sure the teachers won't be too upset for their loss – "  
" – The room neutralizes all powers. You're a normal human being in this room, without powers. There is no way to get out." I sigh.

"Okay, then. You're the genius and I'm sure you've been in here plenty of times. How do we get out?"  
"You don't." My brows crease.

"That's it? You're just giving up?" I spit back. The warm anger fills my gut again, but this time it is more intense.

I've always hated quitters. They're all so pathetic, and useless. Who quits without trying?

It's ironic that I say this, because I've been a quitter since day one.

"Well, it's not like there's anything I can do, sunshine." Lash says back. He crosses his arms and turns his head the direction opposite of mine. Not once has he looked at me in the eyes and spoken since this morning, when all I knew him as was the cocky bully.

"It's easy. Step one, stop being so damn stubborn and just tell me what's wrong. Step two, we get the hell out of here." I squint.

"It's pretty simple." A few minutes go by. He says nothing. When fifteen minutes go by, slower than I'd ever want fifteen minutes to last, I realize that he won't say anything back. I sigh.

"One thing. Tell me one thing, and then we'll leave and I'll pretend this never happened." Still nothing.

"Come on, just help me this once." There is a pause. I can hear his breathing become irregular, and he turns his head.

For the first time since this morning, our eyes connect and it is bitter. Because when you look at his eyes when they're glassy and he's angry, it's piercing and dreadful and sad all at once. His face is blank but his eyes are swimming with horrible emotions.

"I don't trust you. Why would I want to tell you this? Why would I want to help you with anything?" I gulp. Every muscle in my body relaxes and I fall back into my chair in a comfortable sitting position. Now, I am the one who looks away. In the corner of my eye, I see him turn away, too.

We stay silent.

I loose track of how long we sit here. Hours, maybe. Everything about this sit makes my stomach churn with boredom and anxiety. The air is thick with emotion; I feel like I could cut it with a butter knife if I had the chance.

Lash sighs.

"I used to feel guilty…" My head turns. He still is not looking at me. Instead, he rests his head on one of his palms, and messes with his brown hair with the other. He swallows air, and clears his throat.

"I used to feel guilty about being an addict. Addicted to… you know. Hurting people. And myself. I really did. I thought it was terrible, and that I was terrible for letting it get this far..." Lash lets out a breathy chuckle, but it sounds insincere, and forced.

"Hell, I still think I'm terrible. That's aside the point." He gulps.

"What I'm trying to say is that I don't feel bad anymore. About being addicted. Actually, I feel normal." I raise my eyebrows.

"Normal? Why?"  
"We're all addicted to something that takes away the pain." My body becomes rigid.

"We're not as different as we think we are, me, you, everyone. We're really not." I don't say anything back, because I am left without words.

I don't know how he is devastatingly right. But he is.

Drugs hide the pain.  
Drinking buries the pain.  
Bullying gives away the pain.  
Cutting releases the pain.  
Purging rids of the pain.  
Starving eats away the pain.  
Crying dampens the pain.

We all really are addicted to something to take away the pain. Because everyone has pain. Everyone feels it. And everyone copes with it differently. And none of us really are as different as I like to believe we are.

"Is that enough for you?" Lash says, but I feel like he's talking to the people watching us, the staff, not me.

And it must be, because after a few minutes of waiting, the door flies open and Principal Powers is behind it. Her frown is heavy and thick, her eyes narrow.

"It's lunchtime. You two should catch up. I've written excuses for you both. Get to Dr. Medulla's class, now." Lash is the first one to move. I follow him.

Principal Powers gives me a strong stare that momentarily makes me feel frozen, makes me feel like I'm going to be set on fire, makes me feel awake and dead all at once. She turns to walk to her office and I let out a sigh I didn't know I was holding in.

When I notice how far Lash has walked without me, I try my best to catch up to him without being next to him.

* * *

The lunchroom is big. Kids fill every table and their simultaneous hums is all I can hear. Lash and I stand by each other while grabbing our plates, but when he has filled his tray with every desired food he can ask for, he walks to Speed and I stand awkwardly, gawking at the crowd in hopes for a clear table. There is not one, but maybe if I stand long enough, someone will leave and I can take my spot.

I spend a minute of doing this, until a familiar flower-child voice calls my name and my head turns in that direction. Layla beckons me to her table, where she sits with Will Stronghold, glow-boy, a dark-skinned boy, a girl with streaked purple hair, and one last boy who is very tall, and has a single red streak in his otherwise brown hair.

I would object, but it's not like my previous plan is working very well. So, I continue my walk to them. The girl with purple hair makes room for me and I sit in between her and the dark-skinned boy. He has thickly rimmed glasses and a bright orange shirt on. His smile widens, and he puts his hand on mine in an attempt to shake it.

"Hello, you must be the new girl. I'm Ethan!" His voice is high pitched, but nice. I partially smile back.

"I'm Reagan Karly."  
"Oh, I know who you are! Your parents are a pretty big deal, might I say. Also, exquisite name, miss Karly – " I smirk.

"Uh, you don't have to call me miss."  
"No, I insist – " Glow-boy laughs.

" - Dude, she gets the point. Give the girl a break." He says, glancing at me and then Ethan. I look back. He gives out a weird, cheeky smile and waves.

"I'm Zack, but you can call me Zack." Zack says with a mouthful of French-fries in his mouth. Seeing chewed up food makes me sick, but I smile anyways and wave back.

"This is Magenta – " Layla says, pointing at the girl with purple hair, " - that's Warren – " then she points to the boy with brown and red hair. I purse my lips and force a smile.

"Hi." Neither of them say anything back. I press my lips together and glance at Magenta, who stares back.

"I like your hair. It's cool." She makes a small smile back.

"Thanks. I like yours, too." Then, I become quiet. In a way I'm grateful that Layla invited me to her table. But these aren't my friends. These are people who are nice on instinct, but I don't think they actually care for me, and I don't have any place to add to their conversations. So I listen as Will talks to Warren, and Ethan talks to Zack, and Magenta talks to Layla, and I stay quiet. When she asks if I'm alright, I smile and nod and stay quiet.

Layla clears her throat.

"So, Reagan," she begins, moving strands of her golden-orange curls off of her shoulders.

"What happened in first hour today? With you and Lash?" She says with a frown on her face. I press my lips together. I can't tell them what actually happened…

"Whoa, wait, you and _Lash?_" Zack spits, looking at me with wide eyes and perked brows and then at Lash, pointing to the rogue brunette. I snort.

"Oh god, _no. _Principal Powers made a stupid buddy system for him, Speed and Penny and I was caught into the mix. I'm supposed to help him with whatever he needs help with is all. We got in trouble because we were passing notes in class, but in my defense, he started it." I say back, and my voice desperately pleads for them to believe me. Because that is the truth. Just not the entirety of it. Magenta smirks.

"Don't worry, we believe you," the desperation must have been evident.

"Just try to stay clear of him, he and Speed and Penny, along with Gwen Grayson tried to take over the school last year!" Ethan says, and his face drops. I nod.

"I know. That's where you guys, heroes of Sky High come in, right?" Will makes a modest face.  
"I mean, I wouldn't say _heroes…_"

"Oh, I would," I say back, smirking. Because that's what they are. Saving an entire school, maybe even the world, is not something everyone takes so lightly. If they're not heroes, what are they?

"I thought it was pretty amazing. And don't worry, I'll try my best to stay clear of Lash." It's not like I had plans to be friends with him, anyways.

And as this conversation dies down, their conversations rise up and I become silent. And that's okay. I am loud but I know when to keep quiet and this is one of those keep-quiet moments. So I sit. And I pretend to listen. And I wonder about the rogue brunette who sits only three tables away from ours; who is talking loud enough for me to hear his deep voice, and obnoxious laugh that now sounds fake. I can guess the look on his face as his sentence carries on, but I don't try to look anymore.

When lunch is over, I walk into the classroom silently.

* * *

**A/N: Whoa. Sorry for the long wait. My computer died in June and I've been working on my original novel for a long time, but I'm going to try to get back into the swing of writing this! I have a few more ideas for it... Thank you to everyone who supports it by reading! It really does mean a lot. I'm going to try to get the next chapter up a lot sooner this time! Until next time~ **

**This part of the story was inspired by the song "Me, You, and My Medication," by Boys Like Girls. Title credit goes to them. **


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